Page 131 of Vicious Saint
Deadly case of the Swine Flu.
The last one actually had me laughing out loud as we pulled into the Riverside parking lot. Would have me laughing now, too, if I wasn’t face to face with my next forty-eight hour sentence.
“Let’s go,” Saint demands as he kills the engine, climbing out of the Range Rover without a second glance my way.
I yank the handle, using my entire right side to slam open the door, then slamming the trunk, too, after I grab my belongings that were magically waiting for me.
The halls are empty as we walk into the school—the slow trek to Saint’s room turning unbearable by the second thanks to a brewing headache andphysicalbaggage.
“You could help you know,” I mutter as we make our way to the elevator, feeling the strap of my duffle digging like knives into my skin.
Along with the small boxes.
Saint is unbothered as can be while spinning car keys around his finger. “Can’t risk my golden arm.”
How short lived his attitude was from earlier, when he took it upon himself to help me pick up, evenfoldmy damn shirt.
Adjusting the boxes to see where the heck I’m going, I shoot back, “God, I fucking hate you.”
“Careful, Jimi.” He leans close. “Hate sounds a lot like the beginning of a love story.”
I belt out a sardonic, “ha!” as we stop at the elevators.
Balancing on his heels, Saint lets out a pop with his lips, the sound making it clear he’s privy to something I’m not.
“Yikes. This ain’t good.”
“What’s not good?” I maneuver the boxes to the side, finding two Out of Order signs taped against the doors. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”
“Aright, well,” the asshole hikes a thumb over his shoulder, “see ya up there.”
“Seriously?! You’re on the seventh floor!”
“Eighth.” He winks. “So better get movin’...sis.”
“Mark my words, Letterman. Youwillpay for this.”
A thumbs up is all I get before he disappears up the steps.
The fear of being seen is diminished by the time I get to the fourth floor, deciding I’d rather shank someone in the kidney for talking shit than continue with my attempt at one trip.
I’m carrying the second box up to the top of the steps when I hear a Drake song blasting from Saint’s room.
Lord…
This guy’s taste in music is almost as bad as his taste in women.
I’m marching over, ready to wage war, when the door flies open, revealing a bare chested Saint in gray sweats hanging dangerously low on his hips. He leans against the doorway, folding his arms and watching me the rest of the way.
“What took you so long?!”
“Take this.” I shove the box into his chest, making him chuckle as he turns to carry it into the room.
I pick up the one I left on the floor, along with my duffle, before following him inside, wincing from the sharp pain in my head.
I need Motrin or a sledgehammer to these speakers, stat.
“The fuck, dude?” I shriek as he slams the box onto the table, causing everything, including my laptop, to crash along with it.
